


Before and After

by 12gatsunohime (inkstainedwretch)



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: F/M, Grell is transgender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-02
Updated: 2010-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 07:29:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26848198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkstainedwretch/pseuds/12gatsunohime
Summary: After they meet each other, before they know each other.
Relationships: William T. Spears/Grell Sutcliff
Kudos: 4





	Before and After

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to livejournal, [here](https://12gatsunohime.livejournal.com/70687.html).

It's four years before he is made to bow his head and apologize to a demon, two months before he gets a new bookshelf to put behind his desk, a week before Christmas and fifteen minutes before his shift is over. A new transfer from the countryside, freshly trained in London specialty protocol, stands before his desk with a thin red ribbon tied at the front of a white, standard-issue shirt. There is nothing specifically against it in the dress code, which is the only reason he does not object. 

"Let's see," William flits his eyes over the file of his new subordinate. "Grell Sutcliffe, transfer from Sussex. Twenty years experience, no major violations. A couple of minor ones, but they don't say specifically what, which means they weren't severe enough to warrant investigation now. Scored average on your five and ten year reviews and above average on your twenty-year. Everything seems to be in order...ah, it seems they mismarked your gender. Easily fixed, I'll send a note to the Sussex department and they'll-"

"No, that's correct." Sutcliffe speaks for the first time since entering the office, gives a tiny nod that makes red hair swish against a smooth jawline. Will stops, his brain shaken with the harmonic dissonance between the voice in his ears and the circled letter F in front of his eyes. He says nothing, simply nods, and tells himself he will resolve this matter later, have a talk with someone who knew the whole story. 

He never does get into contact with the Sussex department.

~~~

It is six days after Sutcliffe is assigned to his department, and he is standing to one side of the ballroom as the London Reaper's Division Christmas Ball is in full swing. At midnight, it will be Christmas day. He doesn't particularly enjoy dancing, but the music is lovely, and this is often the only chance he gets to talk to his friends in other departments. He is usually so wrapped up in paperwork and assignments that he can barely remember having friends. The orchestra plays Mozart, bright and bouncing. He sips champagne and watches the dancing couples with appreciative contentment. Really, for a group whose business was quite literally death, the Reaper's Division knew how to celebrate. 

Somewhere near the arching windows on the far wall, framed in glass and candlelight, is a woman in a dress that blossoms around her like a rose, just a touch softer than the red of her hair. She is talking to someone Will doesn't recognize, her gloves letting the light whisper over them to flash and glimmer across the silver rings on her fingers. He thinks for a moment that he hasn't seen very many women with hair that short, hanging just below her chin, almost the same color as her glasses that covered what looked to be false eyelashes-

The penny drops. He blinks several times. He wants to forget what he is seeing. He wants to ask why one of his subordinates is dressed like that at a corporate function, however unrelated it was to business. He wants to ask her to dance. 

He walks forward. He stops. He walks back a bit. He takes a sip of his champagne. He walks forward again. He stops. He sets his champagne glass on a table. He picks it up again. He stands very still for so long that he forgets where he is and how many other people are in the room. He walks forward again. He stops again. He watches. He wonders.

He never makes it across the room.

~~~  
  
It is a year before he gets a new pair of glasses, three months before his next review, two weeks before his department is flooded with Valentine's Day suicides, and five seconds before Sutcliffe places a gift in his hands. It's a music box, in the shape of a cat, that opens in the middle to reveal a woman sitting under a tree for reasons William cannot begin to comprehend. When asked, Sutcliffe says she bought it.

"I thought your desk could use a little more light." And then with a swish, she is back out on her next assignment. 

Will struggles to find a place to set it and realizes his bookshelf is so full of binders and old case files he risks it falling off if he sets it there. It ends up on the side of his desk, the brass gleaming under the lamplight.

He winds the key after he comes back from lunch. It plays Mozart. 

~~~

It is three months after he moves his new bookshelf so as not to block the window, two weeks after Sutcliffe sees the flowerbox outside his windowsill and installs a bed of gardenias when he is out of his office, and five minutes after a dramatic half-wail startles him out of the budget report he had almost finished. The door to his office is still wide open, and there's a trembling redhead standing in front of his desk looking thoroughly distressed. The notice that has been all but shoved into his face is in the typeface that only the Personnel secretary's typewriter possesses. He fails to see how this is his problem.

"William, you _can't_ , you just can't let them do this!" Sutcliffe is leaning on both hands, glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose. "I've taken such good care of my hair, I've tried to get it to grow this long for ages! You can't let them cut it all off, not now!"

William looks over the notice and frowns slightly.

"This is a standard notice," he says over the paper, "department regulations restrict the hair length of all male employees to one inch below the jawline." 

The sound Grell makes is that of one who has just been struck across the face. William looks up at the crimson curtain that falls below her shoulders and nods slightly.

"I believe this notice was sent to you by mistake," he says in a matter-of-fact tone, "since you are not, in fact, a male employee. I will speak to the Personnel department this afternoon."

Grell jumps, then looks at him, then at the notice, then back at him, and finally at her own hands. Will can see them shake hard enough to move the nameplate on his desk back a few inches.

"Thankyou," is all she says before dashing out of his office and slamming the door shut behind her.

~~~

It is four months before he gets a new pair of glasses, a week and a half before most of the department goes on vacation and leaves him with three people to cover seven cases a night, and entirely too long before the sun sets and relieves them all of the oppressive heat. William has had his window open all day and even took his jacket off an hour ago. Every lady in the department has a fan out, and William is envious of them all, settling for unbuttoning his sleeves and rolling them up to his elbows. 

Grell comes in with a whole stack of paperwork, documentation for every case they've handled in the past week. She looks like a wilting flower, barely able to keep her eyes open behind the sun-glare of her glasses. Her hair is tied up high on her head, swinging back and forth with each step she takes like a tassel. The top button of her collar is undone, the bow long gone, and she takes a clipboard from underneath the pile of paperwork and fans herself with it, blowing all of her hair away from her neck. 

Will doesn't even bother looking at the paperwork; he's already seen it twice already.

"How is everyone else doing?" He asks, somewhat distracted by the way her entire neck is now on display, and really he should say something, but he can't seem to remember what exactly he is objecting to.

"Oh, the whole rest of the fourth division went home," the displeasure in her voice was as subtle as a sledgehammer, "or rather, the ones who showed up at all today. I'm thinking of calling it a day, myself, since that's all I had left to do. I mean really, it's Friday; what's the point in starting a new pile of work before the weekend division takes over?"

Will gathers up the paper and binds them with a note on top to take them to the records department. 

"For once," he says, "I am in agreement. Perhaps we could find a restaurant that sells lemon ice?"

Grell gives him a tired smile. 

"That sounds wonderful, William." 

Will ignores the slight tone of mischief in her tone, but can't bring himself to disregard the affection. 

For the record, the lemon ice is delicious.

~~~

It is three months after he and Sutcliffe went and had lemon ice, two months after they unofficially made Friday evening supper together a regular appointment, and a week after they went to a concert after their meal. Will keeps telling himself this is strictly spending time with a co-worker unwinding after the week, and then wondering why he has to remind himself of that.

Sutcliffe comes in with two slips of paper and a nervous smile.

"Now, Will," oh right, three weeks after he became Will instead of William, "I know we were out rather late last week, but they're showing Twelfth Night at the theatre, and I adore Twelfth Night, and really, I thought you needed something to laugh at after that murder-suicide Wednesday, because I know you never like those, even though you don't say anything about it, I can tell, I really can-"  
  
"Did I say anything in objection?" Grell stops mid-sentence and blinks a few times before grinning wide enough to scare someone and abruptly leaning over his desk to examine the report in front of him.  
  
"Soooo, how much longer will you be?" She leans her head on one hand and lets her hair pool onto his desk, effectively blocking anything he would otherwise be reading.

  
"I will be here until the end of the workday," he says plainly. "And so will you."  
  
She gives him a disappointed look before returning to her desk, but he can't help but see the smile creep back onto her face as she turns to leave, slipping the tickets back into her pocket.  
  
~~~  
  
It is twenty minutes before midnight. The London Division is holding their party on New Year's Eve this year. He is dancing with Grell Sutcliffe, who is wearing a dress that is an even deeper red than last year's, a perfect match to the flowing blood red that tumbles well past her waist. She hasn't stopped smiling since they arrived together, and he can't get his mind to stop racing in three directions at once.   
  
The music stops, and she looks out at the balcony where the full moon shines.   
  
"I think I need some fresh air," she says, leading him by the hand into the chilly night air. She looks up at him, and her smile fades for a moment.  
  
"Will," she says, "you haven't said a word since we got here. What's wrong?"   
  
He starts for a moment, then shakes his head. "I don't know what I should say."   
  
"Say you like the music. Say you're happy to be here. Just say _something_." And now on top of the confusion he feels regret. So he says the first thing that comes to mind.  
  
"You look beautiful tonight."  
  
And whatever she was expecting him to say, it obviously wasn't that, because she whirls around and just gapes at him, reaches up to run a couple of fingers through his hair.  
  
"Pine needles," she says. "Must have fallen off of the garland when we walked out here."  
  
One of her rings catches on the frame of his glasses, and they slide off and land with a soft clatter on the marble beneath them, but he barely notices, because her hand has moved to the side of his face, and she's awfully close, and so the only thing that makes any sense is for him to step forward and kiss her, soft and warm and lovely as she is.  
  
It isn't until after she pulls away for a moment, after she looks at him with joy and passion and what looks like relief, after she leans in and kisses him again, that he realizes he stepped on his glasses.


End file.
